


Trust Fall

by thirty2flavors



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Mostly Fluff, Pre-Relationship, set in episode 3 trust fiona timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: “Come on, I know your skull’s thicker than this.” She brandishes the stun baton in one hand. “I really don’t wanna have to use this thing as a defibrillator.”Nothing. Difficult prick.
Relationships: Rhys/Sasha (Borderlands)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55





	Trust Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tuwalli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuwalli/gifts).



> HAPPIEST of birthdays to @tuwalli, my perpetual partner in Rhysha crime. :)
> 
> Fic takes place during episode 3 in the [Trust Fiona] timeline, where Sasha canonically has to drag a barely-conscious Rhys back to the others. Partially inspired by some [deleted audio](https://oodlyenough.tumblr.com/post/619283820550733824/hyperiontrashcan-tales-from-the-borderlands) on the subject.
> 
> Also featuring some lovely [corresponding art](https://twitter.com/CatBreathing/status/1284625732820275200?s=20) by @heavybreathingcat

Rhys tumbles over the edge of the platform, fifteen feet down with a thump that makes Sasha wince. The man is a disaster magnet dressed like a clown. How does she keep winding up stuck with him?

If he’s dead down there, she’s gonna be _really_ mad. 

With Rhys out of the way, the spores turn their attention to her, and she narrowly ducks beneath one. She jams the ‘down’ button on the world’s slowest elevator with one hand while the other digistructs her gun and opens fire. The spores pop like disgusting balloons full of bloody confetti.

Her Atlas Silver against a bunch of weird Atlas creatures in an Atlas forest. It’s poetic, or something. 

Her nose wrinkles as she pulls a chunk of spore viscera out of her hair. “Real frantic” indeed. Pandora’s never let anyone have anything nice for more than ten seconds. She should have known better. 

The elevator’s so slow-moving she’s dealt with the spores before it’s even half-way to the ground. Impatient, she jerks the stun baton out of the socket and jumps the rest of the way. 

Rhys is sprawled on the ground a few feet away, unmoving, limbs askew. But there’s no blood, and at this point she’s seen him take so many blows to the head she reckons there’s not much brain left to damage, so she kicks his leg. Gently. 

“Rhys?” When he doesn’t move, she tries again. “You, uh, you good, buddy?”

Still nothing. 

“Hey. Hyperion.” She sighs, walks closer, and crouches down next to him. “Get up.”

No reaction. She slaps his cheek lightly, and when nothing happens, she does it again with more force. At least it looks like he’s still breathing. 

“Come on, I know your skull’s thicker than this.” She brandishes the stun baton in one hand. “I _really_ don’t wanna have to use this thing as a defibrillator.” 

Nothing. Difficult prick.

She pockets the stun baton, hesitates for a second, and then checks his pulse. Strong and steady. She allows herself a short exhale of relief—it would be, like, super inconvenient for him to die _now_ , before they’ve even found the Vault; what if Gortys still needs him? 

Then, since she’s curious, and her hand is in the neighbourhood anyway, and she’s wanted to ask but can’t stand the thought of what it might do to his ego if she did—she pulls his collar back just enough to get a better look at that tattoo on the side of his neck. 

“Huh.” It’s… not bad. Kind of cool, actually—at least considering the extremely un-cool neck it appears on. Besides, she’s seen bandit tattoos of a skag having sex with a bullymong, so the bar is low. “What is this, like, your on/off switch?” 

Her joke is wasted on an unconscious audience. She lets go of his collar and sits back on her heels, weighing her options. Deceptively innocent-looking blue spores bob along amongst the trees, and she squints towards the base where Cassius and Vaughn are waiting.

“All right, sleeping beauty, time to get up,” she tells Rhys, stern. “We need to get out of here, and I am _not_ about to carry you.”

* * *

She carries him. 

There aren’t really any other options, beyond calling for help (which feels too embarrassing) and abandonment (which feels too harsh, even when she looks at the stupid H on his vest). 

The thing is that Rhys would not abandon _her_. She’s sure of it, however strange that feels to grapple with. Hyperion or not, he didn’t sell Vaughn out to Vasquez. He didn’t want Sasha to let go even when he thought it might save him. Rhys would carry her—or at least he’d try, fail, and then pathetically ECHO Fiona until she came to help. Whatever his poor career choices, Rhys is a loyal friend.

Sasha’s never really had one of those before. It’s… nice, actually. And kind of terrifying. But mostly nice. 

So, with no other choice—and a few mumbled curse words—Sasha hooks her arms under his and hauls him up.

He’s more awkward than he is heavy; there’s too much of him and too little of Sasha. “You know, this would be a lot easier if you were Vaughn sized, and not a stupid… spindly… overgrown… leg,” she grunts. Even when she’s reached her full height, his legs are stretched out, his tacky boots dragging in the dirt. 

Still, a few profanities later, she manages to sling one of his arms around her shoulders. She takes one slow, clumsy step, pulling him along with her, and then a second. 

It’s going to be a hell of a long walk. 

“Next time _I’m_ going with Athena,” she tells him as she half-drags, half-carries him back the way they came. “Fiona and her stupid crush can suck it.”

Rhys’ head slumps forward as they move, chin bouncing awkwardly against his chest. 

How long can someone be unconscious before it begins to be a capital-c Concern, she wonders? But if Vaughn survived being a human statue for days, Rhys is probably fine. Right?

“Any time you wanna wake up, that’d be great,” she says.

She’s pretty sure he’s started to drool. Gross.

Sighing, Sasha resigns herself to the quiet and tries to at least enjoy the scenery. The bioluminescence is beautiful, avoiding the blue spores is easy, and so long as they don’t pluck any more flowers, everything seems to stay out of their way. 

Best of all, it looks nothing like Hollow Point. If she squints...

“When I agreed to the fake vault key job, I didn’t know I was agreeing to lug a Hyperion shill through a secret Atlas base full of angry floating balls. I just wanted the money! That’s it! Just enough to get off this stupid—shit!” 

Her foot catches on a gnarled root. She stumbles forward, landing hard on her knees. Rhys slips from her grip and pitches to the side, but she narrowly grabs his vest before he hits the ground and gets his trillionth head injury. 

He definitely owes her for this.

Waiting for the pain in her knees to subside, she readjusts her grip and pulls him back into position. His head falls onto her shoulder. His breath tickles her skin, Sasha’s circulatory system goes rogue, and her cheeks heat up.

“Oh, _not_ cool.” So not cool. Frozen in place, she catalogues all the reasons it’s just a misfire response from her cardiovascular system: he’s unconscious, he’s Hyperion, he’s _Rhys_. It’s a trick of the atmosphere, the environment he’d accidentally-but-aptly called “romantic”. Besides, the air in here is humid, and—

Rhys groans. 

Sasha shrugs his head into a less compromising position. “Uh, you back with us now or what?”

Whatever he mumbles is almost incoherent, but she makes out the word, “Hurts,” so at least he hasn’t completely lost the capacity for speech.

“I’ll bet. You bonked your head pretty hard. Again.”

He whines. “Think I broke my… me.” His words slur together, but she figures speaking at all is an encouraging sign. “Where…?”

“We’re almost back.” Finally. She can see the building between the trees. They’ve just got to figure out how to get up—easier said than done, with Rhys like this. “You’re fine. I carried you.”

“Y-you carried…?” It takes him a second to process, and then he chuckles. “You must have… _incredible_ upper body strength.” He sounds almost giddy. Maybe that’s delirium setting in. “You two could spot each other.”

“Who are…? No, I don’t care. I’m gonna stand up now. Can you help?”

“Yuh-huh.”

She’s doubtful. But she stands, and Rhys does too, supporting enough of his own weight that her shoulders feel the relief. 

“Okay, good. Now, slowly, let’s—”

Overambitious as always, Rhys strides forward too quickly, his knees buckle, and Sasha grabs him as he pitches forward.

“Easy,” she chides, tightening her grip on his shirt. “Slowly. God, you’re accident prone. How are you still alive?”

“Luck,” says Rhys, candid in his confused state. “Help.” 

“Yeah? How many other people have you suckered into dragging you through a forest?”

Rhys giggles again, amused by who-knows-what. “You’re like—like—one of those chocolates.” He lifts his robot arm, throwing off their balance, just to squeeze the air between his thumb and forefinger. “Y’know. The—the gooey ones.”

“What?"

“You act all hard and crunchy, but you’re not. You’re gooey. I can tell.”

Sasha grits her teeth. “You are so lucky you’re already concussed.” Her cheeks are warm again, probably from the exertion of dragging six feet of idiot for the past twenty minutes. She hits the elevator call button with her hip and wills it to move faster. 

“Wrong,” Rhys says, so out of the blue Sasha turns to stare, but before she can ask, he’s carrying on. “She’s my friend. You just don’t get it cause you’re… _you_.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow. “Who the hell are you talking to?” 

Rhys’ head swivels in her direction, his unfocused eyes blinking at her like she’s asked a stupid question. “Him.” He waves his hand to the empty space on his right, where there’s nothing but bushes. “Oh. He’s gone. He does that.”

“...Right.” Unease settles in her stomach, and she jams the elevator call button a few more times, for good measure. Okay, so maybe he’s not impervious to brain damage after all. That’s a problem everyone else can deal with when they get back. Sasha’s done dealing with any of it. 

“He thinks you’re conning me,” Rhys tells her, way too definitive for a grown man describing an imaginary friend. “Y’know. Cause that’s what you do. But I don’t think so.” He slumps his head onto her shoulder again. “I trust you.”

It shouldn’t mean much. Sasha’s very good at getting people to trust her—that’s basically her whole job. But Rhys isn’t a mark anymore. She hasn’t been trying to make him think anything in particular. 

She’s just been herself. He's drawn his own conclusions.

Cheeks burning once more, Sasha bites her tongue. The elevator chimes its arrival and she hauls the both of them into it.

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on tumblr: [@oodlyenough](https://oodlyenough.tumblr.com/tagged/oodlyenough%20i%20write%20fic)
> 
> Writing this I realized in the [trust Jack] timeline, where Jack takes the opportunity to pilot Rhys around, Sasha presumably had a whole conversation with Jack-Rhys and didn't realize it. I'm astounded this never occurred to me and may have to write the [trust Jack] counterpart, lol.


End file.
